"Golden hair, you said?"

She nodded.

"Old or young?"

"She might be either"--and Manella gazed dreamily at the darkening
sky--"There is nobody old nowadays--or so it seems to me."

"An invalid?"

"I don't think so. She looks quite well. She arrived at the Plaza
only yesterday."

"Ah! Well, good-night, Manella! And if you want to know anything
more about me, I don't mind telling you this,--that there's nothing
in the world I so utterly detest as a woman with golden hair!
There!"

She looked at him, surprised at his harsh tone. He shook his
forefinger at her.

"Fact!" he said--"Fact as hard as nails! A woman with golden hair is
a demon--a witch--a mischief and a curse! See? Always has been and
always will be! Good-night!"

But Manella paused, meditatively.

"She looks like a witch," she said slowly--"One of those creatures
they put in pictures of fairy tales,--small and white. Very small,--